


Six Hours To Freedom

by elrhiarhodan



Series: Recovery and Return [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 06:47:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode Tag for what happens after S4.01.  Agent Kyle Collins has Neal Caffrey in custody.  Neal sees a way out for all his problems, but it may cost him everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hour One

**Author's Note:**

> Kyle Collins is perhaps the worst drawn villain in the entire series (and that’s saying a lot). In comparison, Vincent Adler and Andy Woods are layered and nuanced. Collins has three characteristics, he sneers and he swaggers, and he is inexplicably filled with hate. There is nothing else to him. This fic is NOT an attempt to give his character any depth.

Collins cuffed him, but he didn’t take him out to a waiting car, to the airport, and back to prison for the rest of his life. No, Collins pushed him down a flight of stone stairs. When he stumbled, tripped and fell in the near-darkness, the bastard picked him up by his collar and threw him against the wall, holding him there with his gun. Dobbs followed, that lying, cheating, scum-sucking son of a bitch, eased by them and opened a heavy wooden door. Neal hoped that it was a wine cellar. He’d drink his way into oblivion if he could.

But no such luck. Inside was a cell, complete with iron bars. There was a single light bulb, surprisingly bright. Manacles hung from a chain bolted into the stone wall. The only furniture was a chair – an ordinary metal desk chair, like something from a 1950s office. Neal hoped for the chair, not the manacles. He hoped in vain.

Neal struggled and fought as Collins and Dobbs chained him to the wall. “Isn’t this a little overkill?”

Collins sneered at him, and Neal just had to say, “If you’re not careful, your face is going to freeze that way. Oh, oops. It already has.” That earned him a punch in the gut.

The cell door clanged shut, then the outer door. The deadbolt slid home with a sort of depressing finality.

At least the light stayed on. There was another light, though, a tiny green dot in the corner of the cell, just below the ceiling. Neal could make out the lens of a video camera, but he was careful not to look at it. 

Someone was probably watching. Maybe Collins, but more likely just Dobbs. While Dobbs was eager to give him up, Neal didn’t see him sharing his surveillance. As perverse as it seemed, Neal was glad someone was watching. It meant that he wasn’t alone. 

He had to wonder about this agent. In his career – the pre-Bureau years and certainly during the time with White Collar – he had met more than a few FBI agents. Some were the living embodiment of the motto: Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity. Yeah – that was Peter. Others were corrupt, venal, lazy, bigoted. FBI agents were human beings, with all the strengths and weaknesses of the race.

But Collins was unique. It wasn’t his robotic demeanor – more Terminator than Bicentennial Man – but it was the sadistic pleasure that radiated from him as he locked Neal up that distinguished him. There were guards like that in Sing Sing, and probably in every prison system. Corrupted not by circumstance and constant exposure to the worst of humanity, but from the inside out. Born that way, not made; attracted to power and the ability to exercise it to the extreme, especially against the helpless.

Neal shivered, truly afraid now. He didn’t have time; he didn’t have the resources to turn that corruption into something he could use. There was nothing he had, not money, not skills, that would entice Collins into letting him go.

The panic receded as Neal realized he did have a card to play. His gaze flicked briefly to that green dot. He hoped there was a recorder on the other end, and that the room was wired for sound.


	2. Hour Two

The deadbolt slid back and the outer door swung open. Collins swaggered in, that sneer permanently affixed.

“So, Mr. Caffrey. Here we are.” Collins opened the cell door, sat down on the chair and pulled out a switchblade. It flicked open and he started to clean under his fingernails.

“Good thing we’re not on U.S. soil, I’d have to report you for possession of an illegal weapon.”

Collins chuckled. “You’re good, Caffrey, a real smartass.”

“And you’re not like any other FBI agent I’ve ever met.” Neal knew it was a fine line he was treading.

Collins looked intrigued. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a bully and a sadist. Qualities that really don’t fit in too well with the FBI these days.” Neal gave him his best smile, confident and a trifle seductive. 

Just as he hoped, Collins got angry. He stood up and kicked the chair out of the way, knife still clutched in his fist. But then he laughed and shook his head, regaining control. “You think you have me pegged, Caffrey?”

Neal didn’t say a word, just raised his eyebrow in contempt.

“Well, you’re right. I like hurting scum like you. That’s what makes me so good at my job.”

“But you’re not that good. You would never have found me without Peter.” It galled Neal to admit that. “You couldn’t find your way out of a paper bag without a map, a flashlight and someone to hold your hand.” This was a dangerous game, considering the five-inch blade Collins was holding.

“I could cut you to bits and bring you back to the U.S. in that paper bag and no one would care. Alive or dead, you’ll be just another gold star in my jacket. You’ve pissed off way too many people, Caffrey. Too many of the wrong people.”

“So what’s stopping you?” Neal hung there, striving for a level of casual nonchalance. Difficult, with his arms above above his head and his back against the wall, literally. 

Collins got in his face, trailing the edge of the knife through his beard. “There’s nothing stopping me. Don’t you get it? You’re all alone and no one’s going to come and save you. Burke has no clue where you are, and by time he figures it out, if he does figure it out, you’ll be trussed up in the hold of a cargo plane, heading back home. You may even be breathing.”

Neal swallowed, not in fear, but in elation. Collins didn’t know about Moz; Dobbs didn’t give up “Barry”. 

The tip of the knife skirted down his cheek, across his neck and came to rest at the base of his throat. Neal could feel the trickle of blood following that trail. 

“I wonder if that pretty café owner will still like you with your face all cut up. Or the insurance investigator back in New York. You think they’d give you the time of day when you look like Frankenstein’s monster?” Collins laughed again. “But you know what, they don’t matter. You’re never going to see them again. Maybe I’ll be doing you a favor by cutting you up? The scum in Sing Sing might just leave you alone. But then, maybe not? It’s not like they’re going to be looking at your face while taking turns with your ass.”

Collins was good, Neal had to admit. Break him psychologically first. Then physically. He wondered if the man knew about his prison history. Probably. So he kept silent, letting the man think he was scared. Hell, he *was* scared. But not of that. It was something that could be endured – he survived once, and he could survive again.

The knife snagged his shirt, cutting easily through the fine linen. His t-shirt was next, leaving his chest bare. “You’re a little kinky, you know that? You like recreating the covers from porn novels, huh?”

That didn’t get him a response and Neal wondered at the button he just pushed. Collins stepped back and closed the knife, shoving it back in his pocket. “If you’re smart, Caffrey, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

But Neal knew he couldn’t keep quiet and do what needed getting done. “I bet you get off on this. Does seeing me hanging here make you hard? You’re going to go home and beat off to the memory of this, aren’t you?” Neal pushed his chest out, flexed the aching muscles in his arms and shoulders. 

It worked, it finally worked. Collins backhanded him. Neal spat blood into his face.

And it began. Survival was all that mattered now. That and a clean recording of what Collins was doing to him. Without that, this was all going to be in vain.


	3. Hour Three

The beating was merciless. Neal lost count of the blows that landed – on his face, his chest, his belly, his sides. His nose was broken; it was hard to breathe through his mouth. His eyes were practically swollen shut. His ribs were broken too. Neal supposed that being chained into an upright position was a lucky thing; it meant his legs were spared.

Every time Collins punched him, slapped him, Neal remembered the last time he was touched. Not Maya, as lovely as that memory was. No, he remembered the feel of Peter’s arms around him, the joy on his friend’s face, the warmth of his body, the unreserved and endless well of affection. That was what kept him strong. 

Collins wouldn’t break him with his fists. He couldn’t.


	4. Hour Four

When Collins left the cell, Neal wondered what was next. He didn’t have long to wait.

He came back with a car battery, a pair of jumper cables and a bucket of water. Neal was suddenly and completely terrified. He never thought of himself as a particularly brave man, and he knew his limits. “What do you want to know?”

Collins laughed, and Neal thought he’d hear that nasty sound echoing in his nightmares for the rest of his life. “Nothing. There’s nothing I need you to tell me.”

“Then what’s the point of it?” Neal struggled to get the words out. The last time Collins hit his face, Neal had bitten his tongue.

“The point? No point except I’m going to enjoy it. Because I’m – what did you call me – a sadistic bully?” Collins shrugged. “Because you’ve gotten away with perverting the justice system for far too long and someone needs to teach you a lesson?”

“Me, perverting justice? You’re a good one to talk. Last I heard, torture is not part of the FBI curriculum.”

Collins bent down and took off Neal’s shoes. He tried to brace himself for what was to come. But he couldn’t. The pain – brief as it was – was excruciating.

At some point, Neal stepped out of himself. He floated up to the corner of the cell, next to that little green light and watched. It was a bizarre scene – almost religious in its configuration. Collins kneeling, the wet sponge that hid the paddles made it look like he was washing his feet. But each time the sponge touched his skin, he snapped back into his body, every cell a separate agony.

The little green light never wavered and Neal clung to that.


	5. Hour Five

Collins left him hanging there. Feet ruined. Body ruined. Face ruined. He tried to remember the feel of Peter’s arms around him, but even the memory of that touch hurt.

The stone was cool against his back, but Neal was under no illusions. Collins was going to work that over too. His back, his legs and his genitals were still intact, but probably not for much longer. He had miscalculated, badly. Neal had figured that Collins would administer a good beating; that was it. Neal had banked on the fact that he was an FBI agent first, sadist second. Unless Moz and Peter found him soon, he wasn’t going to survive this. Even if he was still breathing by the time Collins got done.

His eyes found the green dot and skittered away, afraid to stare into the camera, into the watching eyes. 

Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours, and recess was over. Collins came back, still sneering, still swaggering. This time, he had a bottle of water in his hand and Neal realized just how thirsty his was. The blood he swallowed left an iron tang in his mouth. He tried to lick his lips; ignoring the thirst.

Even with his eyes swollen nearly shut; Neal could see the condensation on the bottle. It dripped over Collins’ fingers, down his wrist and was lost on the stone floor. He cracked the bottle open, and more water spilled. Collins was a sloppy drinker, half the water sloshed out of the bottle and over his face.

“I bet you want some of this. You’re probably thirsty.”

Neal tried to shrug, but it hurt too much. “A drink would be nice, but it’s not essential.” This was a game. Either Collins would deny him water or he’d be flooded with it. Neal didn’t know which torture he’d prefer at this point.

Not that he was going to be given a choice.

Collins tossed the half-empty bottle aside. Neal could hear the rest of the water gurgle out, over the stones. It didn’t matter. He kept telling himself it didn’t matter. Peter and Moz were on their way.

“You know, Caffrey – I could almost admire you. You haven’t cried, you haven’t begged. If you weren’t covered in blood and bruises, you’d be ready to sit down to lunch at the Four Seasons.”

“Do you want me to beg?” Neal rasped.

Collins considered the question. “Well, it would be satisfying to hear the great Neal Caffrey beg for his life. But truthfully, it will be much more satisfying to break the great Neal Caffrey.” 

“You don’t think I’m broken?”

“If you can ask that question, Neal – you’re not.” Collins pulled him away from the wall and turned him around. Neal didn’t bother to stifle the cries of pain. It was a close call which was worse – the pressure against his chest or the broken blisters on his feet. His arms had long since gone numb.

Collins leaned into him, pressing against his body from ass to shoulders. His voice was foul in Neal’s ear. “I’m going to break you, and when I’m done, I’ll flip a coin and decide whether to let you live. Somehow, I think you’re going to be like all the others, you’re going to long for death.” 

He didn’t bother with a whip, using his belt instead. Collins made him count the strokes, and when Neal inevitably missed one, they started all over again. The counting was almost crueler than the whipping. Neal couldn’t escape into himself, he couldn’t move outside of the pain into a place where nothing existed.

Hanging there, his feet no long able to carry his weight, his arms tearing out of their sockets, barely able to breathe through his broken nose, his shattered ribs, Neal began to long for death. He couldn’t see that green dot anymore. Maybe it was never there in the first place. Maybe all of this suffering was pointless. 

He was going to die and Peter would never find him.


	6. Hour Six

Neal finally passed out. From the pain, the blood loss, from utter desperation.

He screamed when the salt water hit his open wounds.

“Wakey, wakey, Neal.” Collins voice was obscenely cheerful. He grabbed Neal’s hair, pulling his face back from the cold stone wall.

He didn’t have anything left to give. The fight was gone. Neal had gambled and lost. Peter didn’t – couldn’t – find him. Whether Moz didn’t realize he went to ground at Dobbs’ place, or Dobbs was successful in convincing him that Neal wasn’t there, it no longer mattered. He could feel that death was close by, patiently waiting. Every breath was an effort. The last beating probably punctured a lung. Or maybe he was dying from the inside out. A ruptured spleen would kill him just as quickly.

There were things he was sorry for. Not for what he did, but what he didn’t do. All the things he wanted to do would remain undone. Too many words unsaid. Too many regrets. 

Way too many regrets.

The hiss and click of Collins’ knife shattered his reverie. Neal said a quick prayer to a lost god. But the blade didn’t cut skin – just his trousers, right down the back seam. Funny that rape was going to be a relief.

It wasn’t, but Neal was too numb, too swallowed by pain, too resigned to death for it to matter. Collins grunted against him. The hands roaming over his battered body, digging into the broken parts of him, were worse than the burn of the cock invading his ass. He’d been through this before, he’d survived it. 

He wasn’t going to survive this time. 

The grunts got louder, the hands harder and Collins came up his ass. It didn’t matter, not anymore. Nothing mattered.

He hung there as Collins pulled out, semen dripping like slime down his thighs. 

There was a clatter, a shout, familiar voices. Neal wheezed a laugh. The cavalry had arrived, finally. Too late.

He heard Peter shouting, Collins shouting back, but he couldn’t understand the words. There were thumps, a crash. But his world was reduced to black and red and a single pinpoint of green. He couldn’t breathe and all he wanted was to see Peter one last time.

The shouting stopped and there were other hands on him. Gentle hands that gathered his body and lifted him up. The strain on his arms disappeared and Neal wondered for a moment if he was dead. But with the cessation of that agony, others took their place. His feet, his face, his back, his chest as he struggled.

“What did that bastard do to you? I’m going to kill him.” It was Peter, these were Peter’s arms. Peter caught him again, Peter wouldn’t let him die. He tried to twist around, to find the green light.

“Shh, Neal. Don’t move. I have you.” Peter called to someone to get an ambulance.

“No – no. Listen to me.” Neal hoped his words were audible. “Look.” He managed to tilt his head towards the green light.

Peter, blessed, wonderful Peter saw the green light, knew exactly what it meant. “Moz, make Dobbs take you to his surveillance room. Get the recording. And whatever you do, don’t let him touch anything. Hurt him if you have to, just get that recording.”

Neal didn’t know where Collins was. He didn’t care. Peter was here, Peter wouldn’t let him die. Nothing else mattered.


End file.
